That Night
by silvernautilus
Summary: The events that occurred after the night at the pool. Both Sherlock and John can't sleep and the unspoken words between the two of them keeps them awake. Written as a "platonic fluff" sort of thing.


The cab ride home was silent. Unsaid words lingered on the tips of tongues. Several times, the words almost tumbled from a mouth, to stick, poised in the air. But only shallow half-breaths were heard, the rest was swallowed by the just audible sound of the cabbie's radio. This was alright, though. They understood that Sherlock's awkward thank you at the pool was enough for now. Besides, they knew each other well enough to know just what the other was thinking, but had decided not to say.

And so they sat in silence, in an anonymous cab, down anonymous streets, through what would've been an otherwise anonymous night if not for one gigantic occurrence.

Sherlock could still feel the gun in his hand, it had been feather-light and wispy even as he held it in reality. The pile of parka and explosives was burned into his memory. John could still feel the steady, deadly force of the body bomb. Its infinite weight pressed upon his shoulders. The sound of Moriarty's snapping fingers echoed within his skull. But these sensations paled in comparison to the shock and horror of watching dime-sized, red sniper lights dance across your flatmate's head and chest. This was the feeling of the cab ride back to the flat, the feeling of dancing red lights.

Neither one said much of anything as they reached Baker Street. Sherlock paid the cabbie and opened the door. John followed the other man in, careful, just as Sherlock was, to avoid the creaky stair and alert Ms. Hudson of their presence. So they kept silent out of necessity.

"Well..." Sherlock's voice carried across the flat with a sound like river rocks gently colliding. He sounded, John thought, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Well then," he began again, "goodnight." And with a dramatic swishing twirl of the coat, he retreated down the hall.

John was left standing in the kitchen, watching Sherlock's words drift downwards through the air, like dust. He sat down on the sofa and wondered vaguely if he should make tea at this hour but decided against it. Absently, he fingered the corner of a newspaper lying on the coffee table. Light in the shape of a windowpane, drifted across the wall. A car was passing down below, but Baker Street was not it's destination tonight. John sighed and knew he wouldn't be able to sleep.

Sherlock could hear his flatmate fidgeting and knew he wouldn't be able to sleep either. But what could Sherlock do about it? Clearly John was having some sort of psychological turmoil, and loathe as Sherlock was to admit it, so was he. But dealing with such things wasn't a particular area of expertise for the consulting detective.

The brilliant gears clicked away and suddenly the sounds of John were coming closer. His wool socks padded down the hallway and stopped at Sherlock's bedroom door. Sherlock could imagine the former military man preparing, stealing himself, and straightening his stance. Sherlock leaned forward on the bed, listening intently. There came a tentative knock, perhaps intended to only be heard if both were awake, and then a single inquiry.

"Sh . . Sherlock?" John's voice wafted under the door, through the keyhole, and penetrated the heavy wood grain. His voice was quiet, but finished with force and determination behind it. Sherlock rose and opened the door.

There stood John. He had changed into his pajamas and looked smaller than usual, standing there in the empty hallway.

"Erm... I didn't mean to wake you," John began, but was cut off by Sherlock, who preferred what some might call rudeness for sparing John the need to apologize further.

"You didn't."

They looked at each other, John in his blue and white flannel pajamas, and with bags under his eyes from worry and lack of sleep; Sherlock wearing his deep red dressing gown and sporting wild, disheveled hair. John was the first to smile, and Sherlock followed suit.

It was now Sherlock's turn to feel awkward, "You can come in, if you'd like." He was unversed in the protocol for situations like these. But John nodded, which seemed like a good sign. Sherlock slipped back under his covers, and John, without thinking, did the same. The both heard his breath catch as he realized what he had done. The sound of it seemed to be magnified in the dark room. But it all felt so natural, so safe, who really cared at this point? John's breathing slowed and became regular.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a breath, "I really did mean what I said earlier at the pool. What you offered to do . . ."

"I guess that's just what people do for each other" John interjected quietly.

"Really?" murmured Sherlock.

John was quiet for a moment, and then replied, "Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, by the way."

This last statement confused Sherlock greatly. Thanks for what? What had _he_ done? He'd almost killed them both. "I don't understand."

"I just meant," Sherlock could hear John struggling to find the right words, "Thanks for being my friend, Sherlock."

"Oh." The words unsaid in the cab floated out between the two and came to rest in the stillness of Sherlock's bedroom. Unbeknownst to the other, each man smiled.

"G'night, Sherlock"

"Goodnight, John"

And all was calm that night on Baker Street. Occasionally, John's foot would brush Sherlock's ankle, or a hip would gently bump a side. Each checking, even in sleep, that the other was there. All through the night the two slept peacefully, so glad that the other was alive.


End file.
